There is no recluse like a corpse. We all
are bound for the sublime isolation
of our own company, the kitchen in chaos,
no time to tidy up. Shadow and Bubba
dissolve at our feet, a geometry of bones
spelling out the last letter home. I canít
close my eyes or stop grinning. It doesnít
matter. The cop walks slow, kneels
beside me, leather of his belt and holster
creaking, both knees. Eyes like coins,
face full of dread and awe, he must think
that Iím a god.